


Anamnesis

by mysterioustranger



Category: Soul Calibur
Genre: Bondage, Dark fluff, M/M, Sadomasochism, dub-con (details inside), plot if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1329184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterioustranger/pseuds/mysterioustranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eternally confined to the shadows, a deluded guardian remembers what it was to watch his beloved Master’s empire rise and crumble. Musings on Voldo’s turbulent life and times from the Money Pit with love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anamnesis

**Author's Note:**

> I guess it went a little out of hand.  
> People grossed out by Voldo sexytimes beware, because there’s some of that there, particularly a longer scene towards the beginning. It’s not SUPER graphic. But it’s there. 
> 
> WARNING! Specifics for the DUB-CON and VIOLENCE WARNINGS. Plot (ahem) details follow:
> 
> In this fic our lovely weirdo is shown engaging in a bit of BDSM, with a rather huge power imbalance from the get-go. It mostly involves bondage, humiliation and cutting -- with a mention of mutilation -- all of it as consensual as can be in this situation. In one of the darker scenes, these practices are used as actual punishment and deliberately written like he’s trying too much to want it. It also has fluff going on at times, which doesn’t mean I think it’s sweet or romantic!
> 
>  
> 
> \---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

                He did not remember how long they had been down there, surrounded by relics.

                That underground palace had an intrinsic reverie. Even despite the dampness, the kind that clung to the bone with each breath; despite the taste of sea salt in every single drop of water, souring his bruises and lips. Despite the fact warmth was a luxury reserved for the rare candlelit passage. That labyrinth was perhaps not as comfortable as the exuberant, Mediterranean headquarters he had once called home - but it was a far better fit for a servant.

                A sanctuary still soaked in his Master’s presence. A shudder invariably followed the thoughts of Master Vercci and his sweet, haggard whispers..., and the touch of those hands, usually lavished in perfume and cinnamon oil, how sad it had been to feel them rough at the palms the last times they had reached forward to stroke Voldo’s face.

                Recalling company made him uneasy. It felt long since he had last sensed life.

                The place _was_ infested with mice— he smelt them, often heard their squeaks followed by the sound of little feet scurrying away. Sometimes he considered hunting them; it would be easy enough to pounce on one and insert it on the Cat’s Claw. But he never killed out of boredom. Voldo held no anger against them, sensed neither good nor evil when he crouched next to a little rodent and lowered his fingertips to pet it between the ears.

                Men... were something else.

                Many were drawn in by whispers about the Merchant of Death’s hidden loot, and Voldo was not half as compassionate with them as with mice. Like a silent predator, he had followed thieves’ steps in the dark a thousand times, enjoying the rush of uncertainty that accompanied the hunt, contorting out of their tremulous reach with a hiss, and countering their attempts with a single, fatal blow.

                Sometimes he would stretch the battle deliberately; it was the one interaction he knew anymore. And pain, pain was beautiful, in a selfish way.

                He would happily claw through every last person in the world if it was what it took to keep his sanctuary a secret, as he had done once with every worker, servant and sailor who helped in the Pit's construction. No tears lost – all of them, Master reckoned, were waiting to sell the treasure’s location once their deed was finished.

               And oh..., had he been wise, judging from the amount of unwanted visitors they still received. As his time approached rapidly, his Master Vercci had vehemently insisted they were to treat friends and allies with equal wariness. He'd always been well-versed in the art of tricking his way through warzone; where other men saw only chaos and destruction, he had seen possibilities for profit. He had been terrible, admirable, confident; but sadly, his story had taken a turn for the bitter, the wars which he had once benefited from coming to threaten him.

               After everything Voldo had done wrong, even after every mistake still burned with sour shame in his mind - Master had been gracious enough to grant his forgiveness, allowing Voldo to keep him company. They had decided to bury themselves in the vault and wait together for the war to pass, like two cats huddled down amongst their treasure.

                But now, _Signore_ Vercci had drifted away.

                It... was no wonder, sadly. Voldo himself had thought of leaving - and shamed himself for it. The only keeper to Master’s legacy as he was, he owed that place his eternal service. But crouched in the shadows as he spent his days, face buried between his arms and knees as he awaited the grace of external stimulus... it would be futile to deny the thought had crossed his mind.

                He took trips outside, short trips, to breathe in the damp breeze and hear the waves roaring, endlessly ripping against one another. On the occasion, he had caught a hint of that corrupt, vile thing, the one thing his Master had ambitioned and never placed his hands on. He had felt the will to pursue it, that thrill preceding a hunt, but he was tacken aback by fear of finding his underground palace invaded by the time he came back. There was never a shortage of desperate people willing to risk their lives for a few coins.

                Once, he had also been desperate. Curled down amidst the rising waters he would often delve in memories. His early days were a cloud of disjointed images and feelings - the stench of rot and powder, his feet aching with the sting of a thousand small rocks on the streets of Palermo. What a wreck he had been, just a young mercenary among many. Such a stark contrast to the wave of warmth brought along by Master Vercci: he had been colour, luxury and light, despite the tales of refined torture and ruthless treaties which haunted his figure. His charisma bore fear into every soldier’s soul, since no one knew what really lay behind that smile.

                But Voldo had been privileged enough to become the object of his generosity. He had been shaped, like a fine sculpture. He still proudly wore the leashes which had been wrapped around him countless times, still feeling like they pulled him together. They hid his scars, too: each a mark of ownership, each the ghost of a kiss. Symbols of eternal submission, reminders of his transition from the deepest misery to a world of riches, of games, what he had...

                ...not lost, of course. He had failed to please on their last days together, but his Master still came to him every now and then, whispering soothing words, sweeter than he deserved. They reassured his reason of existence, rewarded his good behaviour, reminded him of the focus.

                (The focus.)

                He had to stay. That was his purpose.

                He often relived how it felt to have the Master's exquisite attention placed upon him. The self-taught fighting mannerisms were what had caught his eye at first: how he could repel a blow even with his back turned, how he would spin in swift, almost dancelike moves, falling flat on his stomach, crawling out of reach on his fours and regaining perfect equilibrium instantly. But the Master was far more interested in the way Voldo stubbornly put up with long hours of training until his wrists burned and he collapsed, drenched in sweat, until he could barely groan— not just from pain and exhaustion.

                Being a merchant, he’d always had a sixth sense for people, read them like an open book. He had never given up on Voldo, no matter the resistance he would put up at first to his special brand of training. He would always remember the Master's murmur on their first nights - _there is no shame in enjoyment_ , he would say quietly - while caressing his cowering flesh with the tip of a blade. He had learnt to pierce his defenses; Voldo had learnt to love it. The one needed a confidante, the other a purpose, and they were naturally drawn to each other.

                Master Vercci had taught him much. Voldo had been told to listen to what was said and unsaid. To hear the clank of his opponents' armours and to smell the blood pumping under exposed skin, the sweat collecting around unarmed limbs, the open gashes from previous battles. To differentiate the sound of an exhausted man's steps and the increase in pulse and arousal which accompanied desperation. To merge into one with his surroundings, to know who his opponents were inside and out way before they had perceived him.

                And he, in turn, was an utmostly faithful servant. There were reasons as to why only Voldo had been permitted to live, why he was the last man standing and keeping the secret of his Master’s eternal resting place. He had never cared about the Signore's politics, just about the man he owed his life to – the man ironically known as the Merchant of Death, and Voldo would have laughed were he able to, because what a silly epithet that was.

                True, he may have armed conflicting parties a few times..., but he used to say extended peace was never good for business: troops had come and gone from their homeland for the last half century, it was not a bad thing. In turbulent times, governors were willing to destine mad amounts to defence even if their people were dying in the streets, not unlike Voldo once - what a world. It had amused his Master to place bets, waiting to replenish the winner’s arsenals and offering a friendly price to the defeated.

                There was one particular client whom Voldo recalled vividly. A former captain for the kingdom of Spain whose faith in order had long since fallen when he requested an audience with Master Vercci. They had met not far from their centre of operation, a facility bathed by the Mediterranian shores where his Master made people believe he stored all artillery. Voldo had accompanied the two in their long strolls about the weapon stocks, and had stood rigidly by his Master’s side as they discussed conditions and toasted to a good investment.

                What a sight Captain Cervantes must have been... he'd reeked of sea salt and his dresses creaked at the folds when he moved, as all new clothes did. The characteristic odour of spit and alcohol mixed into his words when he talked, his hoarse roar of a laugh often ripping through the tranquil ambience. And he smelled of hair too, heavens, hair all about his face, but not decorative and tidily kept as his Master’s carefully pointy beard—which he pictured because it was there every time Voldo dared pull up a hand to touch him—but scruffy and everywhere. Not the most pleasing presence of all, but he had been a customer.

                Voldo was no fool; he had always known their debtors were not only feuds, armies and monarchs. That fallen Captain had always been a shady figure. But as said, he would not think much of it.

                Rumours of the Merchant of Death and his mysterious right hand or pet, depending on who was asked, did spread through the continent hastily. Some swore Voldo was a corpse reanimated under a control spell, just for the vile purpose of putting a silent end to Signore Vercci's enemies. Others claimed he was a puppet summoned from the underworlds by mean of unholy rituals, a broken and sinister toy who whispered at the Merchant’s ear in hisses only he could understand. But the truth was much simpler: he was a humble servant.

                Eons ago, it had felt like nothing could escape them, for luck and destiny were on their side. With Voldo at the head of every expedition that adventured onto unknown territory, no whispering of treason or desertion behind their backs went unnoticed, not the slightest bit of information overlooked. The expeditions — ironic how Signore Vercci’s plans for him had back then indulged in his hunger to explore the world, how they would later devolve into the wish to have him confined in that twisted parody of a palace. Voldo had travelled under the Merchant’s commands for years, experiencing the wonders of the old continent and pursuing myths wherever anything that piqued Master’s curiosity would lead him. Each of his orders meant a new exciting journey: he had guided their fleet through the mystical confines of the east, where the ornamented daggers they found so alluring came from, where enigmatic devotions charged weapons with wondrous spells. He had reached all the way up to temples, sites of faith and sacristy, places alien to war and business altogether. He had... committed many silent massacres, thriving in the blood of the innocent or otherwise, for the slightest hint of information. It was what he did.

                Voldo's missions were a mean in an end, and he would have followed every order without question expecting nothing in return.

               And yet, when there _was_ a reward, when there were particular reasons for his Master to be proud...

                ...he relived those memories often, running his fingertips through the ornaments of his beloved Eastern daggers, Manas and Ayus, whom he was almost spiritually connected to - they may have as well been extremities. They reminded him of his prizes and his punishments, pleasure and pain...

                They reminded him of what it was to trace back the steps to his headquarters, to be invited to his owner’s chambers at high hours, discretely, of course - the weaknesses of a powerful man were always best left unspoken. What it was to relax his perennial guard at the first breath of mystical incense, to feel Turkish carpets sinking under his feet, to listen to his Master chipper away in a tone which assured he was pleased. To accept a taste of the rough wine, graciously poured for a toast to the future— it blurred the senses and yet sharpened them somehow, and slowly the words gave into silence, the world around him as tenuous as the smell of incense and burning candles.

                And then—then came the hands...the longed touch he would never dare ask for. First it was just a playful brush, but Voldo leaned into them, seeking their contact. How could he resist such soft hands cradling his face when it had been so long...the straps around his mouth had been loosened and his lips traced, once, twice, a thousand times, heat rushing to his face, fingertips slipping inside his mouth, and somehow he was sucking at them and the voice he would always hold in adoration was purring about how it was always so difficult to keep his hands off Voldo and he obliged, he would always oblige, he...

                Oh, he had missed his Master so dearly. The faintest clue that it might be mutual had made his heart ache.

                His Master Vercci was the one who had once clad him in silk and velvet, therefore having as much power to strip it away. He enjoyed undoing every button, every elaborate lace of his battle gear, admiring each unveiled inch of skin with a degree of patience that almost hurt. Caressing each little scar he saw, well knowing the effect his touch had in Voldo, who could barely hold back a groan at the faintest contact. Years and years of constant training had hardened those muscles, and the result was quite satisfying for the both of them.

                But having his devoted servant dizzy and displayed was far from enough. The Merchant of Death had acquired all kinds of interesting paraphernalia worldwide, some of them gifts sealing a good deal, others reminders of estranged lovers. All of them catered to his personal preference, bound to be tested sooner or later.

                He insisted Voldo was the only one to enjoy the little collection. His servant secretly hoped it was so.

                The remaining straps and leashes had been expertly tightened around his delighted body like a jigsaw puzzle of sorts. His Master enjoyed having him bend in impossible positions: arms holding his whole body weight, spine a perfect arch, legs outstretched, just to see how much he could bear before soreness outweighed his need to please. Every pulsation thundered in his ears as he was bound to resorts cleverly disguised as decorations high up in his Master’s quarters... or in the dungeons, depending on his mood.

                He enjoyed being barely able to stand on his toes, feeling revered and displayed. Master Vercci would often take a long look at him as Voldo bit down on the gags, enjoying how the taste of leather and metal seized his jaw open and choked down his grunting. Enjoying how the straps kept him strategically in place, that lack of ability to move. Frozen, tense, his whole body an erogenous zone - even the slightest brush of Master's fingertips seeming the most intense feeling he had experienced.

                _This is the real you,_ the voice he adored would utter frequently. _Beautiful._

                His inclinations amused his Master profoundly, but Voldo knew it wasn’t just a pastime. That was a training of sorts, not one that taught him to avoid pain, but to embrace it.

                Oh...how he had shuddered in anticipation as the delicious sound of metal against metal clashed through the room. In private, Master Vercci had always harboured an inclination for blades: it wasn’t difficult to detect the fascination in his voice when he talked about the beauty of a carefully finished craft. It was an inclination Voldo shared eagerly, and they had a vast collection to choose from, one he had faithfully contributed to amass. It was only fair for a salesman to test his own goods.

                (Still now, Voldo ventured outside the vault upon hearing metal clashing against metal. It woke something in his mind, as though chasing it could bring back the Master’s sweet whisper. He recalled the words so often—

                _Pay attention to where I am. Focus on sensing where I will strike next._ )

                And when the razor kissed his skin at last... just the tip at first – an incisive, playful hint of pain pressed against his lower back and spread through his body like electricity, making him want to sob every time it delved just a little deeper..., just a little...deeper, until the stray drops emerging at their surface opened wider, multitude of small hot trails cascading down his back. His Master’s free hand would often seize his neck firmly as the blade graced the canvas of his skin with new gashes, framing the ribs which poked out in his twisted position, carving playfully around his abdomen, circling his nipples, each a new laceration he welcomed hungrily, focused just in one thought. _More._

                (Sometimes... in such moments of passion, things had been taken away without a warning. Mutilation made pleasure give in all the way to pain again, like that one time with his eyes, but Master had been right, they had been unnecessary and there was no shame in enjoyment).

                His body had never failed to respond. It always took maybe two or three cuts for pain to start building on itself, and he contorted in pure heat, a rush of emotion burning from his core to every fingertip. His Master would make short stops to enjoy the sight of him, keen on pulling up a hand and clasping the back of his devoted servant’s neck, leaving a trail of sticky prints on his face, tauntingly knowing he longed to lick them clean. That was Voldo's only weakness, how insatiably addicted he was to the feeling of being stripped of all control, that hurricane of heat and tension and sweat and blood and pulse thundering in his ears and dizziness-- the dizziness arose slowly , pushing him to the edge of consciousness as his thoughts fell apart    like a fraction of death

                he knew death wasn’t cold       every time it came to him it felt so       _warm_ -

                _focus_

                then he smelled something sweet and it was master, still there

                 _focus._

                --and throughout the one second later, the next cut delved deep and long in his shoulder, but instead of a cut it was a caress - and with it thoughts slowly started to come back like a wave, a wave slowly rinsing the heat away and making space for the world, building around him again - every sensation twice as intense and pinging as the beginning.

                Master. As always, his Master had been there when he felt himself slip away. He wanted to cling to him— _him_ —the one thing he was certain about.

               What happened when his Master inflicted upon him— he did not know what to call it. But he knew bringing that out, that ecstasy, into every other pain imaginable would make him invincible. It would shut down every flicker of doubt as to whether he was alive and whether he would always be.

                (he felt like that all the time now. **_drive_** , unbound by thought.)

                He could stay in that state minutes, perhaps hours, and with every session he stubbornly ambitioned to elongate the tension in his muscles further..., but Voldo's body needed to try healing itself, readjust his equilibrium to that newfound soreness. Just as his Master had the upper hand in starting the curious game, it was also his call when to stop; and eventually, he would always unbind Voldo and give him support, though he never collapsed from exhaustion.

                Head spinning from the blood loss, he would stagger a little..., but after that hard-earned intensity the relief seemed celestial, and Master would always treat him gently, taking care of his wounds with cloth and ointments, little circles of freshness healing him at the touch. And on occasions, after comforting Voldo, perhaps when he'd behaved particularly well and the raw desire and thankfulness melted a bit of the Merchant's coldness..., Voldo would sometimes be allowed to rest shortly on the Master's soft mattress, to feel him close, closer, as if the world around them had vanished. The loving, almost fatherly cradle soothed something primal in Voldo, far beyond the confines of memory.

                Once he had dreaded those nights at Napoli, toward the beginning, back when he was an incompetent mess. But now, in their underground sanctuary, he missed them with his whole being, dreading his past mentality with almost a physical cringe.

               He would be then allowed to rest for a few hours, enough so that the pain did not overwhelm him. He rarely slept. Instead he stalked every shadow, devoting the entirety of his being, his mind and soul to protecting his Master.

                Those were good days. The best days. Thousands of special occasions were, like that, tucked away at the back of his mind... and body. Of course, as any merchant, Master Vercci branded his possessions; every mark was special, each told a little story, so old and faded by the years they had become a natural part of his skin. And soon thereafter, Voldo would be back to his scheduled training until something else required his attention. Another mission, another fool who dared rival the Master and should be slain, another alleged oddity to be examined and put at value or overseas offers to consider.

                So it had been until not long ago... had it been years?

                Rumours about a powerful sword had spread like wildfire about the continent. Their position had not been endangered, but as the Mediterranian taxes for commerce arose as did overseas piracy, Master Vercci had come to the conclusion that he should breath some new life into his collection. And in his search for a new product, somewhere, he heard of a particular weapon.

                A legendary sword had, apparently, emerged in a northern auction, with endless speculation about its properties. A vile thing, some spoke about it as the key to eternal life. Others said the sword, itself, was alive; it was made of flesh, it peered out into world and minds alike with an enormous, catlike eye. Rumour called it _Soul Edge_.

                The Merchant of Death had been a fanciful man. He was proud of his successes, cockily brought them up at every chance, but he had a volatile temperament. Voldo had always observed the same pattern: something would catch his attention and casual mentions of it would increase. Preoccupation became apparent in the constant tapping of his fingers, in his disenchant with usual business.  He would spend a few days locked away in his library, putting antique cartography and pieces of information together. When something caught the Merchant’s greedy attention, it was safe to say nothing he had previously attained would fulfil him. 

               He had spoken of that item as the kind that one would not sell. He would not _need_ to. Voldo did not understand all of his Signore’s treaties, commercial and political interests, but he did know that just the threat of something so powerful existing and belonging to him... that would turn him— _them_ —into the main potency in the known world. Aristocrats, salesmen and traffickers would yield. So many long-forgotten favours would be repaid then... perhaps they would need to be more careful than ever, but none of that would matter. No one would dare face them.

                He could remember every subtle detail of his Master’s voice, the agitation beneath his words every time he brought up that topic.

                _I have been thinking about that sword, my sweet Voldo,_ he had heard him sigh in abstraction one evening, his eloquence ever so slightly loosened by wine, thoughtfully patting the back of his servant’s neck before sending him off to his quarters for the night. _I think about it often._

                Voldo understood, he did. To possess Soul Edge was as necessary for his Master, as it was for Voldo to please him.

                During some time, he had stood at the front line of the Master’s fleet pursuing any of the sword's traces. Listening, smelling, feeling. Not once before had he failed - and yet, Soul Edge had eluded him.

                The history had repeated itself once or twice. His beloved owner had started to consider alternatives, isolating himself for long periods of time with books as his only company. Back then had he ordered a construction off the coast of Sicily, an underground hideaway he referred to as _the vault_ , designed as a hidden resting place for his treasure once he found it. He had written and sent out a number of short messages which he proceeded to stress over until replies were received. He had even sought Captain Cervantes’ involvement as a favour in return, something Voldo had hissed against.

               Through the process he had watched and complied, as always. But something in his Master’s demeanour was strangely irrational those days, and it made him hurt. Neither had ever been able to stomach the idea of uselessness. 

                Until that time... the one that set off the start of their empire’s demise. He had a vague memory of being invited into the library. Even back then he could picture the scene in his mind’s eye, clear as day, something he rarely did: the only heat coming from a chandelier, gently illuminating the face he adored, its worn features. His Master must have been wrapped in the usual fine robes, head to toe, flanked by piles of books with mystical eyes at their covers. His thin fingers tapping nervously at the old maps spread before him, and the second the door had creaked behind Voldo, he had started muttering.

                Stories about _el hombre de la Armada_ , that forsaken Captain, how he had not withdrawn from his involvement in the hunt for Soul Edge but rather had dropped his end of the deal. How rumour had it that he had become notorious, _bloody_ – Voldo had felt a pang of irritation he couldn’t quite define at the way he uttered that word. 

                Master had sought his hand, intertwined at the fingers with Blame’s handle. He had pinpointed its three blades to Cervantes’ current location and guided them along the map, a space representing vast distance. It was apparent the ransacking of ports and seaside towns in his name delved far into the continent’s shores, much further than his alleged location of Valencia. The few survivors had spoken about black magic, some folly about eating souls.

                _What do you think, dear Voldo?_ The voice had almost been imploring, a travesty of roles. _Would you do me a favour?_

                He would. Of course he would. Whatever his Master wished should be rightfully accomplished.

                Even now, Voldo’s senses were refined towards Soul Edge. He kept its exhilarating chase, having drenched himself in its rotten aura for years. Even from his position, several meters under the ground, its scent came back - that feeling of corruption its fragments emanated. It had taken eons to do it perfectly. His Master would be so proud were he to see, now, the way his faithful servant fused with the surrounding shadows. And someday he would honour his memory by reclaiming what was his... what should have been...

                Still nothing of this would be necessary, had Voldo not been so _foolish_ back then.

                A division of the Master’s fleet had been sent out to test the waters, led by none other than his faithful right hand. The infantry had consisted of mercenaries mostly, all employed to minimize the Merchant’s fathomed possibility of treason. Voldo, however, would have happily torn them apart at the slightest sign of mutiny. He kept himself strictly focused: hearing what was said and unsaid, feeling who they were inside and out.

                They had sailed halfway through the French coast when he sensed it – the sea was turbulent, and the ever-changing winds brought hints of nearby devastation. Ash, smoke and powder swept away by the storms, dying the landscape a curious mixture of odours. There had been something... something else. Something vile and unmistakable, compelling him to pursue it like a child would a butterfly. 

                They moored alongside the dock of a ghost town. He harboured not many memories from that expedition from their landing on. The attack must have been sudden; perhaps a lone, quick blow to the head, one so powerful and unexpected not even he could predict. Many of his companions’ lives must have dimmed away instantly, but that was unimportant. The lone thing that ever made him weaken at the knees and regress, for just a second, into a long-forgotten state of fear, was the presence of the most terrible thing he had ever sensed in the world.

                He remembered a roar had echoed out, the horrifically distorted version of a laugh he had already heard years ago. Even if he had always been slightly discomforted about Captain Cervantes, there was no point of comparison with the tremendously dangerous...man? No, _being_ , he encountered there.

                It had been hard to envision the _Capitán_ and Soul Edge as two separate beings. It had taken the form of two swords, if he was not mistaken, but it was hard to tell who wielded whom. The compound presence had assaulted Voldo’s senses; it oozed danger. He had fallen to his knees upon perceiving it at first, for it was far beyond anything he could have tried to prepare himself for. He had tried to scurry away into the shadows, think of a proper plan, trust his instincts—but there was something strangely alluring about that sword, something which had made him forget about the where, who and why. He had _seen_ it, clear as though in daylight, and that mystical eye had stared right back at him.

                ... it was so alluring, so beautiful, so fierce, drawing him away from the shadows slowly... every centimetre of his body wanted to posses it, to merge with it...

                ... or even to be torn open by it... it really wouldn’t be so bad to have every breath of life sucked out of him, a worthless life after all, just an extension of somebody else’s –   he was   just an instrument, _food,_ so he might as well be turned into food for that horrid     beautiful         monstrosity...       having it as a master... the idea had, in fact, felt comforting...

                ...his fingers were almost relaxing around the daggers. He had been reduced to a cowering kneeling position, shame and blame’s blades sliding against one another deliciously, almost in a prayer...

                _You?_ The sword’s wielder was crying out, but it was as though every sound was in a bubble. _I will swallow you as an act of mercy. Only your merchant would keep alive something so vile._

                **_Focus._**

                One split second later Cervantes had stabbed forward and Voldo had rolled to the side, dodging the wretched blade by bare millimetres. He remembered how he had hopped on his fours, regaining stability, his armoured feet creaking against the ground from the drawback, flexing his knees and spreading his arms back, one katar pointing down to the ground and the other far back, a loud growl erupting from his throat as he hunched slightly to gain impulse before full-fledgedly pouncing against the Captain’s massive form, blades reaching for his windpipe. The Captain had blocked this attempted attack without as much as a grunt and metal had clashed against metal: Shame bent pathetically at the tip and it almost hurt physically. A gloved hand had reached for him and Voldo repelled it, falling flat on his palm and shifting his weight around to spin and aim a kick at his opponent’s sides, which he had avoided effortlessly.

                Voldo had fallen on his hands again and forcefully leaped in the air, and this time his spinning form did score at the man behind him. Cervantes had stumbled back slightly. The servant’s heart raced as he'd taken a moment to think. The feet, yes, he just had to fall back and flat on his stomach, wait until Cervantes rushed forward and slide at his feet to tackle and throw him onto the floor. Oh he had danced like that so many times with his Master, the movement would flow, and he would snap that disgusting Captain’s neck between his knees then claim Soul Edge away as his.

                But he had waited one split second too much, expecting an attempted impact from behind, but suddenly he— no—he had disappeared—and emerged right behind Voldo the moment after, charging against him at the speed of lightning, and although he had dodged swiftly, Soul Edge did pierce him between the shoulder and collarbone.

                He had gurgled. That familiar taste of iron in his mouth again. Cervantes’ sneer was practically audible along with his mocking words, this time forever engraved in his mind.

                _Consider our agreement discontinued._

                That rat. Voldo had always known he was unreliable, that rotten man who stanch of salt and wine.

                He remembered choking as he had been tossed away on what seemed like a hundred more corpses, the worst odour that had ever clung to his nostrils. Abandoned to a decaying mount of dead flesh under the twilight, smoke dispersing in the heavens about them.

                He should have died, he knew. Infection should have long crept through his bruises and corroded him from the inside. Voldo should have died in shame and failure... but instead of taking him aback, the incisive pain that sprung from his cracked bones and defeated muscles pushed him forward; he had well learnt to claim it back as an unbreakable defence.

                He remembered clawing through corpses, drawing back pieces of rot and decay and something crusty which revolted his tight stomach. The bitter prospect of never coming back to his Master’s cradle was all he thought about, and his mind refused to comply. He had nothing to feed on except drive, madness, blind devotion.

                He had spent days silently praying Soul Edge would not find him and hated himself for it.

                About one third of the mercenaries had still waited at the port, miraculously unnoticed by Cervantes. Perhaps he had other business, or perhaps they did not interest Soul Edge. He must have looked dirty beyond recognition, but alive.

                He had never really stopped dwelling on that failure. No fights to his last breath, only shame to live in from then on. Certainly, his thoughts as he had sailed back to Napoli were grim; there was no compassion to be expected of his Master, and if in his eternal generosity he should allow Voldo to stay by his side, he would feel incapable of holding back emotion.

                For sure he must have thought of an alternative. He always had plans, and they were flawless. He was flawless.

                ...what he had found after the long-lasting days of travelling back, upon stumbling into the Master’s library and crumpling down like a tattered doll, was disbelief — and utmost anger. That, he sensed in the tense hands gripping at his forearms, in the shaky fingers seizing his jaw. Voldo had tried to bow down but suddenly he was kneeling, forehead to the ground, a begging groan ripping out of his throat. He had shifted slightly to press the lips against the tip of his Master’s shoes, whose soles were worthier than his whole being, the lacerated tongue softly running against their side, seeking their buckles.

                That evening, it still hurt thinking about. The wounds that had been exerted, they went deeper than those of the fight.

                How he had been bound in the dungeons, by the same chains that were used on prisoners, all pretence of decorum gone. How his Master had spilled every ounce of his ire and frustration unto him and he had welcomed in the humiliation, knowing he deserved every second he spent pushed onto the floor, the pressure of his Master’s shoe against his chest, the dirt gathering about his wounded and half stripped form. How there was no elongated reverie at his submission, no gradual building of pain, how he started hacking and slicing at his skin brutally, sending his muscles into fits of tension. How his Master had muttered words, degrading words, as his hands gathered tightly about Voldo’s neck and pushed, loosening at barely a second from death’s sweet cradle. How Manas and Ayus’ blades had been pressed flat against his face and forced into his mouth, how he’d been ordered to part his lips and kiss them, his lacerated tongue tracing the gilded eyes in their handle, eyes like the ones which had stared at him from the abyss as though the whole universe mocked him. How the razor had sliced down his lips and he had even started to feel slight arousal built into his stomach, attempting to thrust into his Master’s grip..., until with a lone, swift and glorious motion, his Master hacked at his tongue and he had screamed, he wanted to scream and beg but nothing came out except blood sputtered everywhere and Master would know HE WOULD KNOW WHEN TO STOP-

                (Manas and Ayus remained his faithful companions to the day. He was used to crouching in a corner or spreading his limbs on the floor, gently caressing the elaborate patterns in their handles, sometimes scratching the tips of their three blades across his forearms, when something built inside him gradually and he just needed release. Doing it by himself would never bring the same pitch of emotion, but sometimes he needed it.)

                -inhuman shrieks had rung out that night between the empty dungeon’s walls. One of those rare instances where the line between pleasure and fear blurred.

                But it was okay: Voldo had felt overwhelmingly lucky, for on the way back from the battle with Cervantes his mind had lucubrated, and every single possibility was worse than the endgame.

                A rather strange string of time had followed that evening. Laced by silences, by his Master’s thorough plans. He was prepared to take his search personally, the search of this wretched item he had built a sanctuary for. And Voldo, standing faithfully at his side, chin up and hands to the back, had tried to dismiss away the growing feeling in the back of his mind - the one pointing out that the plan was doomed, from the beginning, because Master was being consumed by craving.

                ...Voldo had travelled away many times, and yet the feeling was different on the last occasion. It was strange to think he should not look forward to coming back there again, to indulge in the scents of that Mediterranean palace and the lazy afternoon sun, its fountains and forests, its impressive towers. As though Master Vercci leaving his headquarters made the leave _real_ , somehow. Or perhaps it was something in his gut, something he dismissed.

                Not a week after they had left, official word of the next amongst a long string of Italian Wars broke - this time, affecting the territories close to their headquarters. Upon the leaked word of a joint effort by enemy troops to pillage their fortune, Master had remained silent, no palpable turmoil in his emotions.

                Once, whatever wasn’t in his collection may as well have not existed, but he had always craved more— but now, lack of Soul Edge notwithstanding, even the possessions he already had taken for granted might peril. With battle nearby, he would have hated to see it become a prize for the highest bidder. 

                _We will go to the vault,_ was the only thing he muttered, hours later. _And you will kill everyone._

                Those were the first words of command gifted to Voldo since the day of his terrible failure. And for that, he cherished them. 

                The Pit, that vault of his, had been stripped of its original purpose, serving as an impromptu hideaway. A monument to Master Vercci, to his cunning mind and empire, where intricate mechanisms twisted and turned like clockwork, where still today the waters shifted with every rain, something Voldo did not like in the very least. He had never seen the statue of his Master but he would continue to bow before it, even now. It captured the grandiosity of him.

                And once all his remaining fortune was safely tucked in the confines of that secret palace, Voldo had paid one last visit to the exteriors, where mercenaries gathered around him awaiting their due payment. That, he would gladly give them.

                So he had spun. Arms spread, daggers pointed to the heavens, twisted and crawled in the antithesis of a dance, a twisted parody both bizarre and compelling to the untrained war. He gave out to his own senses until the world around him became a frenzy of blood and flesh and tissue which he drew in delightfully, each betrayed cry around a swan song breathing new life into him. Even when exhausted he continued to motion ruthlessly, to keep spinning and pouncing and throwing, for it was with justice and mercy that he should dim every single life around him, it was out of love that he should be allowed to bath in warm blood for his Master’s delight.

                At one point there was no more life to take around him, and cold sweat gathered about his burning wrists and shoulders. He was shaken – the killing was just a small success, a patch, one incomparable to the way he had doomed their plans, his Master’s life and fortune.

                Certainly some of his disconsolation must have leaked out, as not long thereafter, Master Vercci had clasped his hands around Voldo’s cheeks and leaned in to plant a kiss on his lips.

                He had stiffened in alarm at first, but it was not long before he gave in to taste the mix of creams and sweet treats Master fancied now and them. Sweet, and the sour aroma of wine. The little pointy beard tickled the side of Voldo’s face and suddenly he was not shaking out of discomfort anymore, but out of an electrical rush stripping him of all control over his body and thoughts more than any spell on the battlefield could ever have.

                Glorious forgiveness.

                He could never hope to hide anything from his Master. He could never crave to do anything but serving.

                Not until that place became their tomb.

                Voldo remembered going on roundabouts every morning, stretching his limbs and running up to the surface, breathing in the scent of approaching storms. The air was humid with powder, and cannons thundered in the distance. He would return-- he always did, to the fire and into his Master’s arms.

                At first, Master Vercci had spent his time counting. He had made piles of coins, repeated to himself the names and categories of the stored riches as though somehow he was afraid of forgetting. Inclined amongst piles of money he would mutter as though he talked to a loved one. Sometimes he would grow insecure about whether he was doing it right—and he started all over. Perhaps the deed was finished twice or thrice, as Voldo watched on.

                After that... Master had started growing quieter through the days. Not that Voldo was all the more eloquent; long time back they had spent long hours without so much as a word, and he cherished having such a degree of intimacy with the man he held in adoration. This kind of silence, though..., it had been tense, accompanied with repetitive tapping of the foot and impatient pacing, as though the Master was waiting for something, or trapped in a circle of thought. As his Master had done that in the past, Voldo had just watched and tried to guess at the interests at play. However, down in the underground, he had preferred not to think about it, lest he enter another spiral of blame.

                Then Master Vercci had started whispering quizzically, leaning into his servant's ear sometimes:

                _Would you have it in you to go and pursue Soul Edge now, my devoted Voldo? For me, would you do that?_

                It was always in jest, cruel taunting. Often he would try to push out a laugh afterwards, which came out half distorted by a cough and the smell of flem.

                _Sense what is inside and out of people_ , he had been told; Master’s insides had then begun to smell as big wounds do when unattended. He was growing weaker every day, and also a kind of affectionate he had never been before. He had started allowing Voldo to nudge against him more often, to steal faint kisses which tasted of iron and salt. To the last evening he would guide Voldo’s trembling hands in the darkness; but towards the end, instead of reveling in every scratch he put on that broken body, he had just seemed to want to be held. And so, instead of playing games, they shared the thick folds of his clothing, huddled down together and held each other's cheeks with cupped hands to sleep-

                (Not unlike back in Napoli, when he had felt particularly lenient,

                - or had that been Voldo's imagina-)

                And, at long last, they had spent several days of silence in the vault, silence which would sometimes be broken by the Master's hurried whispering, just alongside the sound of dripping like a countdown. A whispering which continued long after his Master’s breath had weakened at last, and his body had turned, unbearably, into just another object in the room.

                It dimmed away sometimes, still to the day. The idea of forgetting that voice was terrifying. At first, Voldo kept it alive by hurting himself. He knew Master liked that, but—for some reason, no matter how lovingly he did it, how he caressed his own lacerations and blades, it was not enough. As though Master Vercci was punishing him with his absence again, calling for a stronger sacrifice.

                Recently, he had come to realise what would bring him back. He needed to lay his hands on the one thing they had ambitioned and never possessed.

 _Would you have it in you? My sweet, devoted Voldo_.  _Please tell me you will guard it from everyone, oh, you were always my favourite._

                Then perhaps, that thread tied, he would be allowed to finally rest and reunite with his Master..., to submit again to those expert hands for one last time.

                He must only hide, hide in the shadows. Tell himself this story, lest he forget the past errors. Listen to the vast outsides. Hear what is said and unsaid. Smell that corrupt, vile thing which once managed to fool him, wait until the moment comes to strike back and bow before it. _Focus_.

 


End file.
